


Internal Logic

by scheherazade



Category: Football RPF, German National Football Team RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-17
Updated: 2016-09-17
Packaged: 2018-08-15 10:56:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8053639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scheherazade/pseuds/scheherazade
Summary: In another life, Philipp thinks, he wouldn't be writing these stories; he would be the story.





	Internal Logic

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kawaii Dragoness (fandomonymous)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fandomonymous/gifts).



> Dear fandomonymous: bless you for the gift of Philipp prompts. This probably isn't what you had in mind, but I really enjoyed writing it; writing Philipp is always a treat. xx
> 
> (Beta'd by May and Mer, the two best friends a girl could ask for.)  
>  

Philipp Lahm is not running away. He is not running away from this city, nor is he running away from his editor, whatever Loew might think or imply via passive-aggressive emails, vague threats to send his agent to chase him down and sit on him, if necessary, until he finishes this behemoth of a manuscript now eight months overdue. Philipp replies courteously with his new address and contact information. Then he packs up his things, gives away what won't fit in his car, and moves back to the place where he grew up.

Philipp is not running away. He's seeking his own space. A room of one's own, or something like that. He just needs a bit of breathing room. Somewhere away from these sights and sounds grown old and worn, away from the familiar scent that always seemed to linger on his clothes: exhaust or cigarette smoke or even a reminder that there's no sharing space with someone who won't share his life with you the way you almost let yourself believe.

He doesn't believe. So he goes. In his new apartment on a half-remembered street, Philipp throws open the windows, breathes deep — once, twice — and begins to compose a new chapter in his mind.

 

* * *

 

By the tenth day, he feels like he's suffocating, alone with his thoughts, blank white pages mocking him amidst blank white walls.

 

* * *

 

The sign above the door declares the establishment to be an espresso/whiskey bar, ambient lighting and wooden furniture and a couple spindly tables outside for people stupid enough to brave the December chill.

_It'll do_ , Philipp thinks.

 

* * *

 

The barista flashes him a smile, snaps a white towel over his shoulder — a move that shouldn’t exist outside of bad American movies — and asks, “What can I get you?”

His name tag reads _Bastian_ , and his too-blond hair screams of bleach.

“A latte, please.” Philipp sets his bag down at the counter. The seats are too high, but it’s a good place to people watch. “Whole milk. No sweetener.”

“You got it, boss.”

_I’m not really management material,_ Philipp thinks about saying. He takes out his notebook and writes it down instead.

Nearby, some middle-aged women murmur to each other about their children and their neighbors. Two teenagers, bright with nerves and laughter, talk around the fact that one of them obviously likes the other. An old man reads the newspaper and sighs occasionally, syncopated rhythm to the rustle of paper and chinaware clinking.

Philipp writes, half an ear on the conversations around him and half his attention on the words unfurling from his pen.

No one talks to him, until a voice says, “Can I get you something else?”

When he looks up, the barista is giving him a crinkle-eyed look that might be called fondness, if they were more than strangers, and Philipp someone attuned to affection. On the counter, his coffee has gone cold. Untouched.

“I’m fine,” Philipp says quickly. “Thank you.”

“Let me make you another. No sense drinking cold coffee.”

Philipp wavers. The barista waits. The cold coffee gets progressively less appetizing. Philipp hands over his cup.

“You’re a writer?” the barista asks when he returns with a steaming latte.

Philipp puts down his pen to curl his hands around the cup. He won’t forget to drink it, this time. “A novelist,” he says, and waits for the inevitable question: _Oh, what’s your book about?_

He's even prepared to answer cliché with cliché: _If I could tell you in a couple sentences, I wouldn't need to write a book about it._

The barista just smiles at him. "It suits you."

 

* * *

 

He breathes easier, out of his apartment, away from a space he didn’t so much want as was forced to need. Philipp doesn’t like being cornered. If he must have his back to the wall, then it should be a wall of his own choosing. A refuge.

He replies politely to Loew’s increasingly exasperated emails, and he doesn’t think about Stuttgart.

He drinks coffees through long afternoons of writing and sometimes treats himself to a whiskey before going home. He buys more notebooks and better pens. He rips out entire pages and tapes them to the walls, like some mad detective searching through clippings and maps, but what he’s looking for isn’t a missing person or unsolved crime.

It’s entirely possible that this book will finish him before he finishes it. A race between two stories, he thinks in moments of self pity. One moves slowly but under the steady guidance of author and editor. The other plunges on, heedless of plot holes, and spins endless contradictions and characters that appear and disappear. Life, Philipp thinks sourly, should not be allowed to create stories, when it's obviously got no idea what it's doing.

Not that Philipp is doing much better, as winter melts into spring and rain melts dirt into mud.

On the other hand, Bastian now knows all his drink orders by heart.

 

* * *

 

“Who’s your favorite writer?” Bastian asks him on a Thursday afternoon as business slows to a crawl.

Philipp picks up his coffee mug, in deference to Bastian’s attempt to wipe down the counter and also to give himself a moment to think.

“Depends on the genre,” he says, and shrugs at Bastian’s eyeroll. It’s not dodging the question if it’s true. “Every genre is different, so I find it pointless to compare them. But every genre has its moments of transcendence, even cheap thrillers or romance novels.”

“Read a lot of those, do you?” Bastian’s eyes twinkle.

Philipp doesn’t deign to answer. “What about you? Who’s your favorite?”

“You, of course.”

The man smiles like the words are of no consequence. Philipp rolls his eyes, and Bastian laughs.

 

* * *

 

Bastian smiles as easily as he breathes, happy in a way that has nothing to do with glory, and Philipp doesn’t understand. He likes Bastian. He likes talking to Bastian. Talking is easier than rewriting the same old tired words, and Philipp thinks this is the problem with every unknown. The stubborn part of him wants to know. The other parts of him run when that knowledge doesn’t match his ideal.

There’s a reason he has so few friends. Somehow, Bastian seems content to be one of them.

April gives way to May, and Philipp allows himself to wonder.

 

* * *

 

On a Tuesday, he walks into the espresso bar and finds a laughing man sitting in his seat. Not that the seat has his name on it. Though, even if it had, this loud stranger doesn’t seem like the type who would have cared.

Bastian leans over the counter, laughing in a way too genuine for flirtation. Too comfortable for pretense.

The only person who notices Philipp entering and leaving is an old woman by the door, who gives him a disapproving look for pointlessly disturbing her peace.

 

* * *

 

“Missed you last week," Bastian remarks, pouring hot water for tea.

Philipp flips carefully to the next blank page in his notebook. A new one, though he’d scribbled a few sentences last night before giving it up as a bad job. It’s already humid enough that the pages stick together, in an apartment with no AC. 

"You say that to all your customers?"

It's petty, it's unlike him, and worst of all it’s unoriginal. But Bastian laughs, the same laugh Philipp has heard a thousand times. He places the teapot and a teacup in front of Philipp. "Just for you.”

Which could mean either the tea or him. Philipp murmurs a thanks and picks up his pen. Bastian leaves him alone.

 

* * *

 

A man once told Philipp that he’s not made of ice, nor is he made of steel. No. Philipp is cold iron, which burns and cleaves, and cracks when winter melts again.

Of course, Timo had been wrong about many things.

 

* * *

 

Andi says all in a rush, “Fips, just hear me out, okay? I know Loew’s been on your case, and he’s been on mine, too, but I’m calling because I’m genuinely worried. Not just as your agent. As your friend.”

Philipp idly wonders how long it’ll take him to pack up his things and disappear, versus how long it’ll take Andi to show up on his doorstep. Everything seems to be a race, even as the days crawl and slow. He cradles the phone to his ear.

“I’m fine,” he tells Andi. “I appreciate you checking in.”

“No you don’t.” Andi doesn’t even bother concealing his exasperation. “And you’re not, or you would’ve told Loew to shove it where the spellcheck don’t shine. What’s going on?”

“I’m settling into my new place.”

“You’ve been home for months.”

_It’s not home,_ Philipp doesn’t say, because Andi already knows too much. “It’s a process.”

The silence is loud with disbelief. Philipp waits, because Andi is right about one thing, if nothing else: he’s always been a friend.

“You’ll call me,” Andi says finally, “when you want to talk? About anything. You know you can always talk to me, right?”

“Of course,” Philipp reassures him, and it’s easier to lie when Andi can’t see his face. “I’ll call you.”

 

* * *

 

“What’s on your mind?” Bastian asks, interrupting Philipp’s staring contest with a blank page that seems determined to remain pristine.

Philipp shrugs. “Tragedy and ruin. The glory of hubristic man.”

That makes Bastian snort. “Typical day at the office, huh?”

“Maybe I should have worked in an office.”

“You’d hate working at an office.”

“Says someone who’s never held an office job.”

“Right.” Bastian grins. “Takes one to know one.”

Philipp smiles despite himself. “I’m thinking about endings. Possible ones, impossible ones. The book doesn’t want to end.” He puts his pen down, aligned with the page’s horizontal rules. “But it must.”

“Yeah. I used to always skip ahead and read the end first.” Bastian lifts his hands defensively at Philipp’s reflexive glare. “I was eight, okay? I wanted to make sure the story ended happily.”

“That wouldn’t work on some novels.” Philipp picks up his cup, puts it down again when he remembers it’s empty. “Too many authors substitute sound for substance. _Lyric your way out_ , as they say. The literary version of _rocks fall, everyone dies_.”

Bastian laughs long and hard. He gestures toward Philipp’s cup. “Another?”

“Yes, thanks.”

 

* * *

 

At night he flips through the piles of notebooks covering every flat surface in his apartment. His laptop emits a harsh glow, almost as bright as the reading lamp. Sometimes he tries rereading the earlier chapters, and avoids asking himself when and how he veered so off track. Maybe he already knows. Maybe he’d be happier if he didn’t know. Maybe maybe maybe.

He hates the word. It’s as imprecise as _interesting_ , a monument to mediocrity.

Somewhere, in these memories and stumbling words, there must be a better reason than _maybe_.

 

* * *

 

One humid afternoon, he walks into the espresso bar — more out of habit than a true desire to write — and stops dead.

Same as that Tuesday with the laughing man, except this time, before Philipp can walk right back out again, Bastian looks up and sees him. And at Bastian’s cheerful greeting, the person at the counter turns his head as well.

Philipp forces himself to walk forward.

Bastian’s grin falters as he approaches. Philipp doesn’t explain. Doesn’t know how to explain, when this shouldn’t even be happening, is completely incongruous with the way this was meant to end. To have already ended.

Except there’s Timo, sitting at the counter, next to the seat that Philipp always claimed as his. And before Philipp can so much as open his mouth and demand either an apology or an immediate cease and desist, Timo turns to Bastian and says,

“Could we get a latte? Whole milk, no sweetener.”

Bastian’s eyebrows twitch toward his bleached hairline. And yes, Philipp thinks with something too faint to be anger, too sour to be hope — Timo still knows him way too well.

“Coming right up,” Bastian murmurs, and removes himself.

Unlike Timo, who continues sitting there, watching, waiting, not asking him to sit, not saying please, and can we talk, and let me explain, and and and.

Timo doesn’t really do _and_. Joining words together into reason, that’s always been Philipp’s thing.

He puts his bag down on his chair.

 

* * *

 

_You know you can always talk to me,_ Andi had said, and in a different life Philipp might have even believed him. In another life, Andi might have been more than a friend. In another life, Bastian might have smiled at him in a way that meant something real. In another life, Timo might not have come back.

He can see it, as clearly as he can see how a plotline must unfold: without Timo, Philipp learns who he is again. He remembers that there is more to him than this crushing anger, a useless desire that turns words to ashes on his tongue. He moves on, and even begins to forget.

Perhaps he finds new ambitions, after this final book. Perhaps he turns to analysis, or publishing — Loew has to retire one day — and Philipp builds a new empire from this crumbling industry. It would be worthwhile, protecting stories for generations still to come.

Perhaps his books and his dogs keep him company, in a house with a big kitchen and spacious library, a house where he could invite his students — he’d like to teach, he thinks, when the fire in him finally burns low enough.

Perhaps he finds someone else.

Someone who’s not Timo. Someone knowable, who doesn’t lead Philipp down a headlong fall. Someone who is content to live more sedately, more cautiously, the way Philipp always meant to do. Someone who truly appreciates, then, what it meant for Philipp to follow him into a whirlwind that should have soon spent itself, only it kept turning, turning, turning until the dance was an orbit and he was gravity itself.

In another life, Philipp might have fallen in love with someone who isn’t Timo Hildebrand. 

 

* * *

 

_You left._ Philipp wants to fling the words in his face, the way he’d dreamed and hated himself for dreaming. _You left me._

Except that’s not even true. Timo had offered, after all, wanted Philipp to go with him. Timo with his restless feet and impulsive heart, calloused fingers tapping in time to some song that Philipp can't hear.

_Come with me,_ Timo had said, flickering smile in the ember dark, a cigarette caught between his teeth and Philipp drawn too close in his arms. _Come with me, to Spain, to France, to somewhere new. You and me and the band. We’ll tour the cities where we have friends, and when we run out, we’ll make more friends. And when we get tired of friends, we'll leave again. They don't matter. Just you and me. Fuck the rest._

That’s probably not what Timo had said. Philipp doesn’t remember what he said, exactly, only that he’d been wild and sure and waiting impatiently for Philipp to say yes.

Philipp said no.

What was he supposed to say? He had a book to finish. He had a life here, a life he’d begun to think of as theirs. He didn’t want to leave, and he didn’t want Timo to do something that he would certainly regret in a few months, at most a year. Philipp might’ve lived through the inevitable disappointment, because he never expected anything less, but Timo — Timo, for all his scowling impatience and punk rock sound — Timo still believed in things like grand adventures and great romance. If he broke, Philipp wouldn’t know how to put him back together again.

_Stay,_ Philipp told him, and refused to plead. _There’s nothing for you in Marseille, Valencia, Lisboa that you can’t find here._

And he doubts those had been his exact words, either, but he has no trouble remembering the way Timo’s smile slipped away.

_We’re leaving next week,_ Timo said. _Either you come with me, or._

_Or what?_

_Or nothing. Come with me._

It was incredibly selfish of him, the way he’d just assumed. 

But Philipp is just as selfish, and twice as stubborn. And he's never liked being cornered.

 

* * *

 

“So how’d it go,” Philipp asks when bitterness overwhelms even the taste of strong coffee. “The glorious, world-trotting rock star life. Free to go where you will, be who you’ll be. Having fun yet?”

Timo shrugs. “It didn’t go quite as planned.”

“Obviously.”

That makes Timo’s eyes flash, and for a second Philipp thinks Timo might punch him. He might’ve welcomed it, even. That bruise would have faded away with time, the way hurts are meant to do.

Instead, Timo says, “What about you? Still working on that book?”

“I’m working on an ending.”

“Yeah? You happy with it?”

“I’m working on it.”

“But are you?”

“Happy?”

“Yeah.”

Philipp shrugs. He drinks his coffee. Timo watches him. Philipp puts down his cup. “How did you even find me?”

“Did you not want to be found?”

“That’s not what I asked.”

“Andi,” says Timo. “And before you chew him out, you should know he told me to give me you space. But I think he’s wrong. I think he's worried about you.”

“Andi worries about everything.”

“You’ve been working on that book for years.”

“These things take time.”

“I can see that,” says Timo, like that’s supposed to mean something. Philipp hates the way Timo trips him up like this, makes him want to hide behind clichés.

Philipp picks up his bag. “It was nice running into you.” More uninspired lies. “If you’ll excuse me, I have a book to finish.”

“Wait.” Timo catches his arm. Philipp doesn’t flinch. “Have dinner with me. Or let’s get a drink. Just you and me.”

In another life, Philipp might have broken then. In another life, Philipp might have given in to the tremble that threatens to crack his voice, making his feet unsteady when he looks at Timo and sees the same unknowable certainty that drew him in the first time, the last time, the next time and the next time.

In this life, Philipp removes his arm from Timo’s grasp. “I’d rather not.”

 

* * *

 

His apartment is stifling, suffocating as pressure swells before a storm that just won’t break. He throws open the windows. He tries to breathe and refuses to scream. Notebook pages flutter and rustle, flutter and float. The windows stay open. The rain doesn’t come.

 

* * *

 

Bastian takes one look at his face and pours a shot of whiskey before Philipp’s even sat down. “Your friend left hours ago,” Bastian adds, an olive branch of alcohol and news.

Philipp downs the shot, Bastian pours him another, and Philipp ends up telling him the whole story.

Outside, it begins to rain.

 

* * *

 

Fuck Timo. Fuck Timo and his wandering feet and steady eyes and the madness to come back here, as if he still has a right to any part of Philipp’s life. It was always going to end like this, and so it is. It's over, it's done, and it's not resolved and probably never will be but it is — at the least and at the last — his choice. A disquieting, stubborn authenticity.

Characters ought to curse their authors as much as men curse God and themselves. In another life, he thinks, he wouldn’t be writing these stories; he would _be_ the story.

“Okay, no. You can’t lyric your way out of your own life.” Bastian looks at him with fond, sad eyes that are as far from pity as Philipp has ever known. His fingers twitch for pen and paper. A warm hand covers his own, stills him. “Giving up isn’t an ending. It’s a surrender. Sometimes the story has to muddle on.”

Philipp tries to draw his hand back. Bastian tightens his grip, forcing an answer.

“Why?” Philipp demands when he already knows. "It's inelegant.”

"It's realistic.”

"To you.”

“And many other mortals.” Bastian squeezes his hand and finally lets go. “Come join us sometime, and you might see what the fuss is about.”

 

* * *

 

The storm scatters the notebook pages he’d taped and organized all along the walls. Splotches of wet mar ink and fiber. His windowsill drip, drip, drips as morning slowly dawns.

Philipp tears the ruined pages down.

 

* * *

 

The next day, he finds Timo sitting in the exact same seat as before. Timo sees him — he'd been watching the door — and Bastian sees him at the same time.

Philipp turns around anyway and goes right back home.

 

* * *

 

The text message reads:

_I want see you. Have dinner with me. -Timo_

Philipp ignores it, along with all of Andi’s calls for the rest of the week. He writes and writes and writes, and still the story refuses to end.

 

* * *

 

When he finally goes back to the espresso bar, his seat — and all the ones around it — are empty.

 

* * *

 

“I’m taking off early today,” Bastian says around mid-afternoon. “Want to hang out for a bit?”

Philipp has no reason to say no. They take a walk down to a half-dried pond where Bastian insists he almost drowned as a child. Philipp casts a dubious look at the surface, wondering how deep this sad puddle could possibly be.

“I was smaller then,” Bastian notes, like he can read Philipp’s mind. But that’s ridiculous, of course.

Equally ridiculous is the way Bastian buys two ice creams from a vendor, and places one into Philipp's hand.

"Do you like writing?" Bastian asks, after he’s consumed half the confection in less time than it takes Philipp to decide that no, he’s really not in the mood for a brain freeze.

The ice cream starts to melt in his hand. "It's what I do."

Bastian makes a humming sound, like he understands, or he’s too busy masticating to form proper words. Philipp’s teeth hurt just watching him. Bastian says, “When I was a kid, I wanted to be a footballer.”

"Despite your advanced aquatic skills?"

"I hear diving's useful in some leagues."

"Shameful."

"You a fan?"

"I don't have time,” Philipp lies.

Bastian doesn't press. He never does. "Don’t get me wrong, I'm not unhappy or anything. I don’t know if I’d be happier if I was chasing the dream or whatever. Part of it’s nature, yeah? But another part's what you end up doing, day to day, and how you do it. I think I would've been good at football. I work hard. I like to win. But I also like being my own man and being appreciated for doing what I do.” He grins as if the words contain some secret joke. “I'm planning to open my own bar soon. Just gotta talk Lukas down first."

"Who's Lukas?"

"Friend of mine," Bastian says easily. "Anyway, what about you?"

"I'm Philipp. Nice to meet you."

"Very funny." Bastian doesn't laugh, though he does keep on smiling. "I meant — you like writing? It makes you happy?"

It's never made him happy, Philipp thinks. He's good at it, and it’s what he knows, and it consumes him and haunts him and will never leave him alone, because that’s the way he is. Half the time it's like pulling teeth, and the other half it's like he's bleeding out. Only in ink, and endings.

He settles for, "It makes me who I am."

 

* * *

 

Bastian walks him halfway home, and bumps his shoulder at the place where they’re meant to part.

"This was fun. Thanks for sticking around."

"Why did you ask me to?"

"Because." Bastian looks at him, steady and open and inviting Philipp to read of him what he will. Philipp reads nothing but sincerity. He doesn’t understand. "You haven't come by in a while, and I wanted to talk to you. We're friends, right?"

Philipp wants to chalk it up to Bastian being exceptionally good at his job, but some fictions are beyond even him.

"Yeah," he says instead. "Of course. Thanks. This was — fun."

Bastian laughs at him. "Don't make fun sound so serious! See you soon, yeah? Your friend hasn't come back since the last time, so you should be safe."

Philipp somehow manages to laugh around the tightness in his throat. Obvious, transparent, inevitable. "Okay," he promises. “I will."

 

* * *

 

_meet me at the espresso bar at closing_

He doesn’t add _if you’re still around_. He doesn’t apologize. Doesn’t disclaim. Just hits send, and heads out without waiting for a reply. If Timo gets to be selfish about this, then so does he.

 

* * *

 

When Philipp shows up, half an hour early, Timo is already waiting outside. A light rain has begun to fall.

"Hey," says Timo.

"Hey," says Philipp. "Walk with me?"

Philipp doesn't offer to share his umbrella, and Timo doesn't ask him to.

 

* * *

 

_Slip-slop_ , goes Timo’s sandals on slick cobblestone. Either he forgot to check the weather, or saw it was only a thirty-seven percent chance of rain and decided to take his chances. It would be like him, to do something like that.

_Slip-slop, slip-slop._

It used to drive Philipp mad, when Timo tracked mud into the apartment or left wet towels on the floor. Timo would never apologize, of course, but he would clean and mop and overcompensate in a thousand other ways the moment Philipp brought it up. Which only made it worse, honestly, because there would’ve been no need for all this in the first place if Timo could just — be less _Timo_.

_Slip-slop._

Timo laughed at him and kissed him breathless, a useless diversionary tactic; Philipp could never be so easily swayed. _I’m not trying to trick you_ , Timo always said. _You can't cheat happiness. And I've tried. Believe me._ And in moments like that, Philipp almost did.

_Slip-slop, drip-drop._

Water drips off the edge of his umbrella, onto Timo, who doesn’t complain except to move a little farther away. Still close enough to hear when Philipp asks,

“Why did you come here?”

Timo steps over a puddle. His hair lies damp and flat. He says, “When I realized I had to come home, I went back to Stuttgart — except you weren’t there anymore. You were here. So I came here instead.”

And that’s not an answer. Nor is this place they’re walking through home. Nor is anywhere, really, not Marseille or Valencia or wherever else they might find friends. That story ended, the day he said no.

“I miss you,” Timo says. “That’s all.”

As if that could be all. “And what did you think would happen,” Philipp asks, “coming here? Nothing’s changed. I still have a book to finish. I still think you’re a bastard for leaving like that, and you think I have no sense of romance.” Timo’s shaking his head, but Philipp won’t allow it. “None of that’s changed.”

“You haven’t changed, either.”

“You don’t know me anymore. If you ever did.”

“Maybe,” Timo says, as if even those loathsome syllables could be sweet. He catches Philipp’s arm, not drawing him close but drawing him to a pause. “Maybe not.”

“Stop saying that."

"Saying what?"

" _Maybe_. I hate that word.”

“Okay.”

Philipp blinks. “What?”

“I said okay. I’ll stop saying that if it bothers you.” Timo looks at him, steady and sure. “I can’t promise I’ll turn into your perfect man, Philipp — honestly, your idea of perfect is pretty fucked up. But as long as you tell me these things, I can at least try. To be better.”

“You can’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“You can’t. How could you?”

“I don’t know,” Timo admits. “But I want to find out.”

_Slip._ Timo steps into his space. _Slop._ Philipp moves the umbrella so he doesn’t hit his head, because Timo never thinks about logistics like that. Timo with his sandaled feet and intractable heart, getting rained on here in Philipp’s hometown, because that’s where he decided _home_ might be.

“Give it time,” Timo says, and Philipp nearly breaks. “Give me time to get to know you again. Properly. This time, Philipp. I swear.”

And Philipp has never asked him to swear anything, because Timo never offered. Philipp still isn’t asking now, even if Timo is offering. But it’s just like him, Philipp thinks, to rush headlong into something that can’t possibly have a chance of succeeding. It’s careless. It’s mad.

He must be more than a bit mad himself, to have fallen for this idiot. But his is a different kind of madness. Where Philipp would spend hours fussing over a cabinet to make sure all the plates stacked up correctly — by size, and use, and style — Timo was just as likely to not notice, or upon noticing, to empty out the whole thing and buy a new matching set. Timo never did things by halves. It drove Philipp mad. In the end, it had driven them apart.

Or so he wants to believe. Because then he would have been right to say no. Stories need internal logic. Characters need motivation. Philipp needs this.

Only, this isn’t a story. This is just Timo, and Timo is asking. Philipp knows he shouldn’t. He shouldn’t be doing this. This isn’t like him, the version of Philipp whose life he narrates to himself in his head, in his dreams, in endless words and chapters without end.

Philipp stands on a street in the warm summer rain and knows that he’s not a character. Not in this life. Maybe not in any life where he’s more than just a story.

The umbrella is big enough to shelter them both.

He reaches for Timo's hand.


End file.
